


Ice Runs and Old Friends

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, JOHNLOCK IS ENDGAME, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, No Season/Series 04, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: A summer garden-party is not John Watson's idea of a good time. It's hard to enjoy yourself when things aren't going very well, and John knows things are definitely not going very well for him. His marriage is on the rocks, but he can't bring himself to leave. But then the situation takes a turn and someone John had believed lost to him comes back into his life. And this time, John isn't going to let him go.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/941211
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: Exchange Of Hell





	Ice Runs and Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thechaoscryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechaoscryptid/gifts).



> This one is all for Aryagraceling, who requested a hurt/comfort fic for The Pit Exchange/Exchange of Hell, and got matched to me. I hope this fits the bill, sweetie!

* * *

* * *

John Watson had known coming to the Billingsley’s monthly summer get-together was a bad idea. But Mary had wanted to go, said it would be fun. Well, fun for _her_ , anyway. So, ever the dutiful if not ever so slightly more desperate, husband, John had agreed. He wasn’t stupid, he knew his marriage was on the rocks. But he felt…trapped. It wasn’t Rosie’s fault, she was an angel, the sweetest little girl. It was what John had gotten himself into and turned his back on when he decided it was a good idea to marry Mary Morstan and stay married to her. He had done it to save himself, and Rosie, because he knew that if he left them, Rosie would suffer. And despite having no blood between them whatsoever, John loved the little girl. He knew for a fact, thanks to a friend of his who worked at Bart’s, that the baby wasn’t his. It was a blessing, a relief, actually. 

Coming to the party had been a bad idea, and all he and Mary had really done was argue with each other and spend the rest of the party miserable (John) or chatting with friends like nothing was wrong (Mary). So, when Lisa Billingsly ran out of ice, John volunteered to go out and get some more. He needed the fresh air. He needed to think before he ended up doing something he regretted again. All he wanted was to go back to London, go back to…well, what was in London for him? He couldn’t very well go _back_ to Baker Street, could he? There was nothing there for him to go back to. Not this time, not anymore.

He still remembered getting that awful phone-call, at three in the morning, Mycroft Holmes’s voice informing him in soft, broken tones that his brother had been found dead in the Baker Street sitting-room. There had been some sort of struggle, someone had broken into the house. Mrs Hudson was just fine, but terribly shaken up by the whole thing. Sherlock…was not. John had rushed over from the house he shared with Mary in Hounslow and arrived at Baker Street to find the place swarming with police cars and ambulances. The last time he’d seen that many uniforms at the house had been in 2011, right before Sherlock had faked his own death as part of an elaborate and surprisingly successful scheme to take apart Jim Moriarty’s post-mortem network. He would never forget Mycroft and Greg Lestrade trying to keep him out of the house, away from the body, but he’d gotten past them and stormed upstairs to the flat he’d once shared with Sherlock Holmes, and found Sherlock on the floor, dead.

John had gone to the funeral, like he had the first time, and visited the cemetery every month just as he had for two years. The difference now was that he took Rosie with him instead of going by himself. She would leave little crayon-scribble drawings by the black headstone engraved with the name, dates, and epitaph of one of the kindest, smartest people John had ever known. And she would talk to Sherlock like he was actually there with them, like he was alive. She would tell him about whatever was going through her mind, what she was learning at school and such. It always made John smile just a little bit, in spite of the staggering grief that made his chest hurt.

Polishing off the current bottle of beer in his hand, John made sure he had his keys and phone and went to kiss Rosie before he went off to get the ice.

“Are you leaving, Daddy?” She asked sweetly, looking up at him with the prettiest brown eyes. He smiled and hugged her tight.

“Just for a bit, lovey. Gotta go get more ice for Miss Lisa. You stay right here and be a good girl, okay?”

“Okay! Love you, Daddy!” Rosie just smiled at him and kissed him wetly on the cheek. John felt some part of his jaded, scarred heart squeeze a bit. How could she be so good and so pure? It wasn’t _fair_.

Sighing, John got to his feet and headed out, waving to a few people as he left. If he had his choice, he wouldn’t come back to this party. The nearest petrol station was a half mile away, and Tesco was six minutes’ drive. Taking a risk, John decided to drive.

When he got to Tesco, he parked, locked the car, and headed into the store. He found what he needed in no time and checked out, thanking the girl behind the register and carrying the two bags of ice back to his car. As he put them in the back seat, a shout got his attention and the back of his neck pricked. What was that? Raising his head a bit, John saw a commotion by the doors. A man ten years younger than he and in far better shape was running away, people were shouting after him.

“Stop that man!” Someone yelled, “Call the police!” John was already on the move. A bit of excitement for the evening? That was okay with him. He wasn’t quite drunk, but he wasn’t exactly stone-cold sober, either, yet he had no problem running down the man, who kept looking over his shoulder.

It had been quite a while since he’d gone for a good run, but it didn’t take long to get his rhythm. John chased the man about a half mile before he tackled him, sending them both into a tumble. He landed on top of the suspect and quickly sat on him, wishing just for a moment that he still had handcuffs. Or someone in pursuit who did have them. Handcuffs? Oh, wait a minute! Chuckling, he moved so he was kneeling on the man’s shoulders and found the handcuffs he had gotten as a present from Greg Lestrade last Christmas.

“Stop that, will you?” He grunted as the pinned suspect bucked, trying to throw him, “You’re not going to get very far, y’know.”

“Get off me!”

“Mm. Nope.” He clicked the bracelets around the prick’s wrists, “Stop. Squirming.”

“Oh, fuck me. You’re not a cop!”

“Nope! But _they_ are!” Thumbing over his shoulder at the sound of sirens behind them. “Oh, nice response time, lads.”

“Get off!”

“I am not. Stop squirming or so help me I will break your arm.” He grunted. It wasn’t long before they were surrounded, and John was happy to let the locals have the bastard. They looked at the handcuffs and at each other before turning to John, eyes wide.

“Sorry I did your job for you, laddies.” He apologized.

“Jesus.” One of the constables breathed, “Doctor Watson?!”

“Old habits, lad.” He shrugged, giving his shoulder an experimental stretch. This was one of his old fans, from back when he and Sherlock had worked together.

“Thanks, sir.”

“For _what_? I did your job for you.”

“Most civilians wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, I’m not most civilians, am I?” He grinned. “You should know _that_ about me, son.”

“Good thing you were here, huh?”

“I suppose. What’d that idiot do, anyway? All I heard was “Stop that man!””

“Stole this. Probably from somebody back at the Tesco.” The constable held out a wallet to him. He took it and looked through it for an ID of some kind. He found it in the proper slot and paused. The face staring back at him from the driver license was as familiar to him as his own and he swore his heart skipped. No. There was no way. It couldn’t be. Sherlock was _dead_. Well and truly and devastatingly dead.

“Oh my god.”

“Are you alright, sir? You look a bit off.”

“Sorry. No, I’m…fine.” He cleared his throat and looked up at the constable, “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yeah, it’s alright. Don’t worry about me.” He wondered if his expression gave away the pain and heartbreak he was feeling.

“D’you want a ride back to the scene, sir?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright. I can…walk back.”

“I think you’d better come with me, Doctor Watson.” The constable put one hand on his arm and squeezed. “Last time I saw a man’s face that colour, he was dead. Come on.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” John gave a weak smile and tagged along to a nearby Ford. He felt a bit queasy, and his palms were damp. It didn’t help that his heart was banging against his ribcage like it wanted to jump out of his body.

“Here, drink this.” A bottle of water was pressed into his hands as he got settled, and John made sure his seatbelt was buckled. It had been one of Greg’s rules, if you were riding with him you always wore your seatbelt. Sherlock had hated that, and usually refused to wear his. John took a gulp of the water and tried to steady himself.

As they drove back to the Tesco, he looked through the wallet again, sliding the license out of its slot to look at it more closely.

“Who is this?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“This man. Who is he?” He held out the license. The constable, a young fellow named Hutchinson, took it and looked at it as they sat at a stop.

“Oh, that’s Ford Holmes.”

“Ford…Holmes?”

“Yep.”

“Doubt his name is that understated.” John took the license back and looked at the familiar face. “Never twins. It’s _never_ twins.”

“Well, we just call ‘im that, sir. His real name is Sherrinford.”

“Oh, god, that’s almost worse!” John chuckled in spite of his grief, “Let me guess. Sherrinford Holmes?”

“Yessir.”

“Wonder what the rest of it is. That family, if it’s the one I know, has the most bizarre habits for naming their children. Sherlock was always so bloody defensive about his name.” He shook his head, “Took me ages to learn his full name. Told me his name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that was the whole of it. Just in case we ended up having a son.”

“Do you miss him, sir?”

“I’d be a bloody liar if I said I didn’t.” John sighed and slid the license back into its slot, stroking the image through the view-window, “There’s a hole in my life that just can’t be filled properly, and God knows I’ve tried to move on. I just … I _can’t_.” He made a soft noise of distress and clenched his teeth. The young constable gave him a measured, sad look and John cleared his throat abruptly. That wasn’t pity, but John wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know what it was. He hated people feeling sorry for him, it always made him feel worthless.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, it’s none of your business.” He said thickly.

“He was your best friend, sir.”

“He was more than that, son.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes, “Jesus Christ, he was so much more than that.”

It was quiet as they pulled into the Tesco’s car-park and parked next to John’s car. But he didn’t get out right away.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s okay to grieve. You don’t have to hide it from anybody.”

“I wish I believed you, Hutch. Wish I believed you.” John sighed and covered his face for a minute. A hand on his arm got his attention and he looked up to see Hutchison holding something out to him. It was a photograph. He took it and studied it.

“Who’s this?” He asked, recognizing Hutchinson as one of the two men in the photograph.

“That’s me and my husband. His name was Robby.”

“Was?”

“He died in Fallujah last year.”

“Oh my god. I’m … so sorry.” John sniffled, “God, you two were a handsome pair.”

It made him miss Sherlock so much more seeing Robby and Hutchison together and he located his phone, opening his photo albums to find a picture of him with Sherlock. It was actually the last picture he had of the two of them together, taken by Greg at a Pub Night with The Met after successfully closing a difficult case. It was the last time he had seen Sherlock alive, that three-am phone-call had come two days later. He’d spent the night at Baker Street, telling Mary he’d been too drunk to drive home from London that night, and Sherlock had asked him for sex. It hadn’t been their first time, but it had been wonderful. At least he had fond memories to remember Sherlock by, if not rather explicit ones.

The only warning John had before he just completely broke down in tears was a single teardrop hitting the screen of his phone. Hutchison let him cry, just offering company and soft words, reminding John to breathe every once in a while so he didn’t pass out. It was probably the first time someone had hugged John in months, and he couldn’t bring himself to be ashamed of needing a hug in the first place. He felt kind of silly for sobbing hysterically in a police car, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had a good cry in one. He’d spent almost an hour in the front seat of Greg’s car doing this very same thing, it might have been longer than that.

He really wasn’t all that sure how long he had spent crying over Sherlock that first night. He just knew that he hadn’t returned to the Hounslow house for almost a week. It should have been a sign that something wasn’t quite right that Mary never called looking for him or really bothered to comfort him. When he finally did return home, she had asked, he had explained. Mary had declared that he would move on in time, he had a family to worry about. And now he wouldn’t be going back and forth from London so often.

“It wasn’t an accident.” He muttered, mostly to himself. He wasn’t sure where that realization had come from.

“What’s that?”

“Sherlock. His death…it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t…” John raised his head and looked out the windscreen, drying his face on his sleeve, “He was killed on purpose.”

“But they never found the man who broke into the house.”

“They wouldn’t have. None of the doors had been forced, the locks were intact.” He squinted, “Whoever killed Sherlock was finishing a job that failed the first time. They missed once, they weren’t going to again.” He sniffled and dialled a number on his phone. It rang twice and picked up.

_“Lestrade.”_

_“Hey, Greg. It’s John.”_ He coughed, _“How’s London?”_

_“Oh my god. John! Hi! Jesus, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you since the funeral!”_

_“I know who killed Sherlock Holmes.”_ He looked Hutchison, who looked a bit confused.

_“You do?”_

_“Yeah. And so do you.”_

_“Oh, shit. Mary.”_

_“Yep. She must have drugged my tea that night and snuck out once I was unconscious. She’s the only one I know of who would … ”_ He trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken.

_“Oh my god. John.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Shit. Um. You’re not … with her right now, are you?”_

_“Nope. I’m out on an ice-run actually, got involved with the locals.”_

_“John Watson, if you tell me you got yourself arrested, I will post your bond and you owe me that whole fucking story and a round at the pub.”_ Greg was only half-serious. _“But … seriously, mate … ”_

_“Not me. Caught a pick-pocketer.”_

_“Handcuffed ‘im?”_

_“Of course I did! You gave me those handcuffs, remember?”_

_“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”_ Greg chuckled a bit. _“But, um, if there’s … somewhere safe for you and Rosie to go? I’d highly suggest you go there tonight. If you can get Rosie away from Mary. See if you can get the locals involved.”_

 _“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Think I could convince Mycroft to help out?”_ He split his focus between Hutchinson sitting next to him, listening to the conversation John had on speaker-phone, and the busy car-park outside. _“The last thing I need is my ex-wife slipping the nets and disappearing on us.”_

 _“You take care of yours, and we’ll make sure she doesn’t try any funny business.”_ Greg sounded tired, _“You okay, John?”_

_“No. Probably won’t be for a while.”_

_“That’s fine. You’re not supposed to be okay.”_ A soft tap on the glass got their attention and John looked up enough to see someone standing outside the car. Two someones, actually, two very _familiar_ someones.

“Oh my god.” He breathed, “Hutch?”

“I see what you see.” Hutchison whispered.

 _“Hey, Greg?”_ John would be damned if he didn’t lose his voice. _“I’ve … gotta go. Talk to you later?”_

_“ Good luck, John. We’ll be here when you need us.”_

_“Yeah, um. Thanks, Greg. Talk soon.”_ He hung up and looked at Hutchison.

“You’d better call your superiors right now.”

“Sure. You’ve…well, you’ve got business, I guess.”

“Yes, I certainly do, and he had better have a good fucking reason.”

“I can think of one or two.” Hutchison said softly. John shoved the door open and got out, clutching Ford Holmes’s wallet in one hand, keeping the door between himself and the twins.

“It’s never twins.”

“John. I’m … so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Sherlock spoke up first, “I didn’t … I’m _so_ sorry.”

“You’re alive, you crazy fucking bastard. How’d you get away with it this time?” He looked between Ford and Sherlock, “God, you look identical! How?!”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m losing my mind or not.” He blinked at the pair, “I’ve spent a whole year visiting that stupid grave, y’know.”

“I know. Mycroft brings me Rosie’s drawings.”

“Oh god. I thought someone was throwing them away!” John had always felt bad about leaving anything behind because it just got thrown into the rubbish heap. Sherlock, looking surprisingly healthy and very much alive, shook his head slowly.

“No, I’ve kept each one of them. They’re…all I have of you. Of either of you.”

“You have my letters?”

“Every single one.” Sherlock just smiled a bit. “Sentimental, I know.”

“Oh, god.” He leaned against the door and put his head down. “Sherlock!”

“It’s…well, it’s not quite okay, John.”

“It’s not _safe_ is what it’s not!” He stepped away from the door and closed it, moving to stand by the bonnet of Hutchison’s car, “Come _here_ , you moron.”

Sherlock obediently came and the minute he was close enough, John grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into a hug. He didn’t want to ask any questions, he just wanted to...savour. Sherlock was alive, he was warm, and he was absolutely okay with John hugging him like this.

“Oh god, John.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m ... so, so sorry.”

“What for? I’m the one who died again.”

“Because I married the woman who tried to kill you twice. Tried twice, failed twice, and so help me she’s not getting another chance.” He hugged Sherlock tightly, revelling in the sound of his breathing, the living heartbeat, and closed his eyes.

“I need to finish this, Sherlock.”

“What about Rosie?”

“She’s...she’s not mine, Sherlock.” It hurt to say it, but it was true.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“But I still love her. I really do, she’s...”

“An awful lot like you for a child you had nothing to do with.” Sherlock stroked the back of his neck, “In case you were wondering, and in the interest of full disclosure, it was a bullet-proof vest.”

“God, I thought I’d lost you again. Did Mycroft and Greg know?”

“Mycroft did.”

“Explains why he tried to keep me out of the house.” John sighed, “I’m too happy to have you back, Sherlock, I won’t repeat myself.”

“I wouldn’t blame you at all if you did, though.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, “I never ever meant to hurt you like that, I just didn’t ... I didn’t think you would understand.”

“I didn’t. I’m not an idiot, Sherlock, you don’t have to treat me like one.” John raised his head, “But I did forgive you.”

“When I didn’t deserve forgiveness.”

“Doctor Watson?” Hutchison spoke up carefully, unwilling to interrupt a private moment.

“What is it, Hutch?”

“Sir, if you’re willing, I’d be happy to accompany you back to the party. I have a couple of the lads on standby.”

“That was quick.” Sherlock seemed impressed by the speedy response.

“Small town, somebody tried to steal your brother’s wallet, and now my wife is wanted for attempted murder? Give ‘em something to do, Sherlock.” He chuckled and looked over at Hutchison. “Sure, give me a bit.”

“Of course, sir.” Hutchison smiled and leaned against his car. A couple more cars pulled in and took up point, ready to go when John was. Shaking his head, he took Sherlock’s hand in his and looked at Ford, who _was_ an identical twin.

“Now this is a sight. Ford?”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Watson.”

“I guess! Um, what’s the rest of your name, then?”

“About as embarrassing as the rest of them, if you can believe it.”

“Try me.” He chuckled.

“Our parents have no originality, unfortunately, and thought it was clever to name both of their sons William.”

“Oh no!” John tried not to laugh, it wasn’t very nice. “They did not!”

“They did.”

“Oh my god.” He looked from Sherlock to Ford, “So, I know he’s William Sherlock Scott, what did you get stuck with, then?”

“Dominic William Sherrinford.”

“Oh no! Oh that’s worse! That’s terrible! I am so sorry!”

“Don’t be, no one else ever was.” Ford just shrugged. Anything else John wanted to say was put on hold when his phone rang.

“Bets on who that is?” He muttered. If it wasn’t Mary, he’d be absolutely shocked. Sure enough, it was his wife. He sighed and swiped into the call after Hutchison gave him a connector to plug into his phone that was attached to a recorder.

_“Hello?”_

_“John! Oh, thank god! Where are you? You’ve been gone nearly an hour!”_

_“Oh. Mary, sorry. No, I got...well, I got a bit held up.”_ He cleared his throat and looked at the twins and at Hutchison. _“Everything okay otherwise? How’s Rosie?”_

_“She’s fine! But you’re never going to believe who just showed up!”_

_“Surprise me.”_

_“Sherlock’s parents! I didn’t even know Beverley and Marcus knew them!”_

_“Oh?”_ He raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock, _“That’s interesting. I’d love to say hi.”_

_“They’ve asked about you, I told them you were out getting ice if you hadn’t run off to London or something idiotic like that.”_

_“Mary.”_ John sighed and rubbed his forehead. He’d put the conversation on speaker. Again.

_“As you are so very fond of reminding me, my dear, there is nothing for me in London anymore.”_

_“It was for the best, John, it was the only way for you to understand.”_

_“Understand what?”_

_“You were so focused on Sherlock, on that life, you had no time for your family. You were always in London, you never called.”_ This was nothing short of a confession, and they were getting every bloody word on record. Hutchinson made a gesture for him to keep Mary talking. No problem. John wasn’t going to be nice, he had no reason to be nice.

_“So, instead of talking to me, asking me to stop working so much, you took it upon yourself to eliminate the competition? Is that what you did?”_

_“Are you accusing me of something, John?”_

_“I know what you did, Mary. And I think I know why you did it.”_ He felt Sherlock hook his chin over his shoulder and leaned back a bit. Sherlock stood behind him, arms around him, grounding him to a much happier present and possible future.

_“But I want to hear you say it.”_

_“What do you want? A confession?”_

_“Just tell me why you killed Sherlock Holmes. I just want the truth.”_ There was a pause and the sound of shuffling, a door closing.

_“You think I killed Sherlock? Why would I do that? To you, or to Sherlock? Why?”_

_“Because you tried once. You failed once, and when I kept going back to Sherlock instead of staying with you, you got jealous.”_ He practically spat the words. _“Was that why you finished the job? Was that why you shot him at point-blank range in the chest? You couldn’t stand having to share your husband with someone else?”_

 _“Yes! Alright?! Yes, I was jealous! Of course I was!”_ And there it was. _“You spent more time with him than you ever did with me! Once he came flouncing back into your life, treating it like a game, you just rolled over and showed your belly, you bared your throat! He broke your heart, left you in pieces, and you still welcomed him back with open arms!”_

_“Mary, I beat the sense out of him. Twice in one night! I was furious with him!”_

_“And I thought I had a chance. That was my mistake.”_

_“You never had a chance. You tried to replace someone who can’t be replaced. Ever.”_ John looked at the twins next.

“Have your parents get Rosie. Hold onto her for us.” He whispered. Ford nodded and placed a call on his phone.

 _“John, where are you?”_ Mary finally asked, _“Did you actually finally run off on us?”_

 _“No, Mary. I didn’t. But, y’know, for an assassin, you have terrible aim.”_ He sniffled, _“Next time, sweetheart, aim for the head.”_ Before she could figure out what he was talking about, he hung up and pocketed his phone.

“I should get back to the party, I’ve been gone long enough they’ve noticed.”

“Our parents have Rosie, they’ve offered to get her out of the house before the cops arrive.” Ford hung up his own phone call, “She knows something isn’t right. She’s asking where you are.”

“No, I want to see her.” John shook his head, “But I’m in no condition to drive, I shouldn’t have tried driving down here in the first place.”

“I’ll drive you back up there if you want me to, Doc.” Hutchison had his radio up, “We’re all ready to go.”

“Yeah, that’s...actually, yeah, that’s perfect. If you don’t mind carrying a couple bags of ice in your boot.”

“Not at all.” Hutchison just smiled and they moved the ice to the boot of his squad-car. John gave his keys to Ford, who would follow behind, and got in the back seat of Hutchison’s car with Sherlock.

It was a quiet drive from the Tesco to the Billingsley’s house, or as quiet as it could be with three squad-cars making a show of force with blues-and-twos on full. When they arrived, he got out of Hutchison’s car and looked over the roof at Sherlock.

“Let’s get this over with.” He muttered, collecting the ice. Going into the house and through to the kitchen, he had Sherlock, Hutchison, and a couple of sergeants in tow. He dropped the ice off with Lisa’s sister, Beverley, who happened to be in the kitchen and did a double-take when she saw the police.

“John! What’s going on?”

“Don’t get involved, Beverley, or you’ll be arrested as well.” He snapped, mimicking the same words Greg had spoken to him that awful night in 2011. “Where is Rosie?”

“She’s with the Holmeses. Out back. Um, what’s ... is something wrong?”

“None of your business, Beverley.” He headed for the back garden, “Is Mary out back?”

“She ... should be. I saw her a minute ago.”

“Good.” He nodded and kept moving. Well, maybe Mary _had_ been outside, but he encountered her coming into the house.

“Well, that took long enough!” She snapped. “You were out on an ice-run, not a manhunt.” Then she happened to look over his shoulder. She missed the police at first, but not Sherlock. Her eyes widened and she turned white as a sheet.

“Oh my god.”

“I told you. Next time, aim for the head.” John said calmly. “But there’s not going to _be_ a next time.”

“You think you can stop me?”

“I’m not stupid, Mary. I know Rosie’s not my daughter. And I know you tried to kill Sherlock twice.”

“Then why did you _stay_?”

“Because I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.” He folded his arms across his chest, “It’s over, Mary. It never should have started, but I was desperate. And angry. And heartbroken.”

He almost wanted her to threaten them, to give them a reason to arrest her. He wasn’t disappointed. She pulled a gun from her purse but never got beyond showing it to them. John grabbed Sherlock and hit the floor, cringing as the gunshot sounded in the house. He heard the sound of breaking glass somewhere else. Hutchison and the other two were quick to react and in no time had Mary in handcuffs. A hand appeared in his field of vision and he raised his head. Hutchison had gotten to his feet and had one hand extended.

“You alright, Doc?”

“Jesus. Thanks, Hutch. I’m so sorry.” He took the offered hand. “Nobody got hurt, did they?”

“Not on our end, they didn’t.” Hutchison smiled and helped them stand. Sherlock looked for the projectile and found a hole in the wall.

“What’s on the other side of this wall?” He inquired.

“Um, the water-closet, if I’m not mistaken.” John offered.

“Right. Be right back.”

“And, there he goes.” John chuckled and followed Sherlock. They found the bullet in the bathroom sink, surrounded by broken glass. It had passed through the wall and smashed into the mirror above the sink before dropping into the basin. Using a piece of tissue, they collected the projectile and handed it over to Hutchison.

Once Mary was gone, which didn’t take very long, John went out to the back garden. Amazingly, no one outside seemed to have noticed the disturbance. At least, the children hadn’t. John found Rosie, she was playing with some of the other children. When she spotted them by the door, however, she came running.

“Daddy, Daddy! Uncle Sherlock!”

“Brace yourself.” John murmured. A split second later, Rosie reached them and threw an arm around each of them.

“Uncle Sherlock! I thought you were dead again!”

“Nah, sweetie.” Sherlock smiled down at Rosie, “I just had to act like I was.”

“Where’s Mum?” Rosie asked as she latched on to Sherlock, who wasted no time at all picking her up. “She didn’t try to hurt you again, did she?”

“Mum is going away for a long time, Rosie. But she won’t be able to hurt Sherlock or anyone else again.” John touched his daughter’s cheek, “I promise.”

“Okay, Daddy.” Rosie sniffled, “Can we go home?” John looked at Sherlock. Home?

“I...suppose.”

“Can we go to Baker Street?”

“Oh, Rosie.” John sighed. He still had his keys to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson just wouldn’t take them back, she said it wasn’t right to take away the only safe place John really had.

“Yes, I think we can go to Baker Street.” Sherlock rubbed her shoulders, “But we’ll go tomorrow, okay?”

“Really?”

“Of course, love.” Sherlock just smiled at Rosie, “Tonight, we’ll stay with Nana and Papi, would you like that?”

“Yeah!”

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart.” Sherlock set her down, “Go get your things.”

“Okay!” She ran off and Sherlock followed her into the house. John heaved a sigh of relief and looked over at Sherlock’s parents, who looked relieved but saddened.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, John!” Wanda gave him a tight hug, “You’re family, for God’s sake! I’m just so glad to know that awful woman can’t hurt you anymore. You, or your sweet little girl.”

“Not if Mycroft has anything to say about it, she sure won’t.” John sighed, “I may not be that girl’s biological father, but I’m all she’s got right now. I won’t turn my back on her, I can’t.”

“Why don’t you boys go back to Baker Street tonight?” Timothy folded his arms after putting an arm around John’s shoulders, “Wanda and I would be more than happy to keep Rosie for you as long as we need to, we haven’t seen her in absolute ages.”

“Oh.” John hadn’t really even considered that. “Y-you don’t mind?”

“Of course we don’t! Besides, I guarantee you Ford’s going to tell Sherlock the very same thing! You two deserve to have a quiet night to yourselves! Go home, John. We’ll take care of Rosie for you.”

“Oh. Okay. Um.” John felt tears stinging behind his eyes. “Thanks. Really. Thank you so much.”

“It is no trouble. Go!” Wanda kissed him on the cheek. “Go. Home. John Watson.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled and took his leave of the party.

He apologized to the Billingsleys for the disturbance, they were busy with the police but promised they didn’t hold him responsible, and fetched up his phone as he left the house.

“John!”

“Hmm?” He looked up and saw ... well, that would have to be Sherlock standing by his car. “Oh. Where’s Rosie?”

“Sent her back to my parents’ house with Ford. Can we go home?”

“I need to stop by the house and get some things.”

“Sure!”

“And, um, what about reports?”

“They’ll come find us.”

“Figures.” He just smiled and got in on the passenger’s side. He didn’t have to give Sherlock directions to the house he had shared with Mary.

Getting into the house, he packed two bags with his belongings. Two bags, two boxes, and a suit-bag. Most of the stuff in the house was Mary’s. He didn’t take anything he hadn’t bought for himself, even going so far as to leave behind his wedding ring on the dresser. He would worry about annulments and divorce decrees later. He really wanted to go back to London, back to Baker Street, back … well, back to the only place he’d ever truly felt at home. Locking the house, he left his key under the mat and the drive back to Baker Street was pleasantly quiet.

Some careful asking got Sherlock to start talking about cases he’d been solving anonymously and in no time it was just like the old days, when they would work out clues together. Sherlock did all of the talking, John occasionally gave up suggestions that ultimately led to the proper conclusion, and Sherlock praised him for being intelligent. Well, _more_ intelligent than most people. High praise from the genius Sherlock Holmes.

***

Parking the car just down the street from Baker Street, he took one bag, one box, and the garment-bag. Sherlock had the other box and the second bag. Getting into the house, they were quiet going upstairs. He would worry about moving his things tomorrow. Sherlock took him by the hand and led him back to the bedroom, making sure to lock the door. It was too late and he was too tired for anything but sleep at this rate, he was too wired to think straight and consent was so bloody important for them.

Brushing his teeth in the bathroom, his things set up alongside Sherlock’s like they belonged there, like he’d never actually left Baker Street, John felt a knot in his chest loosen up. He hadn’t even been aware of it before, he was so used to being on his guard around Mary for confrontations, and he managed to spit, rinse, and clean his toothbrush before he had to hang onto the sink before he went to his knees. Oh, Christ. She’d tried again, she had tried to kill Sherlock. Maybe even tried to kill John? Would she really _do_ that? Was she just that petty and jealous and vindictive? Apparently. But this time, they had managed to duck and now Mary would no longer trouble them.

He stifled a sob with one hand and hoped to God Sherlock wouldn’t hear him. But he knew that was a silly hope. Sherlock was very observant, and his hearing was quite good. He would know John was upset. And John was not ashamed. He got himself under control enough he wasn’t just in absolute pieces, but it was obvious he wasn’t doing well. Taking a deep breath, he went back to the bedroom and switched off the light. He paused and studied the sight before him.

Sherlock sat on the bed, long legs stretched out, back against the headboard, looking at something on the tablet John had given him for his birthday last year. God, had it been that long? Hearing him come out of the bathroom, Sherlock looked up and when he saw the expression on John’s face, he quickly set down the tablet.

“John. What’s wrong?”

“Why is she like that?” He said quietly, “She wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“Oh, John. You couldn’t have changed her for all the world. It was folly to try.”

“I didn’t try to change her at all! _She_ tried to change _me_!” He shook his head fiercely, felt the sting behind his eyes, the tremor in his left hand, “She _lied_ to me, over and over and over, and I kept forgiving her, welcoming her back!”

“Don’t do that, John. Please don’t.”

“I treated you like shit and turned my back on you!”

“And I forgave _you_ , John. Don’t hate yourself.”

“I’m … so sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have known, I should have … I should have stopped this all before it got this far.” He sat down on the bed and rubbed his fingertips across the quilt. Sherlock was behind him in a heartbeat, hands on his shoulders.

“It’s fine, I promise, it’s all fine.”

“No, it’s not!” He didn’t mean to sound so … angry, but he couldn’t help it. “It’s not fine!”

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock put his head on John’s shoulder, “But it is what it is.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“We can’t change the past, as much as we’d like to, all we can do is make the best of whatever future is ahead of us.”

“Do we even _have_ a future, Sherlock? Is there any chance of an “us” at all?”

“Absolutely.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and deep in his ear, his hands warm and firm on his shoulders, “I believe there’s always a chance to be happy. We just have to take the risk and jump.”

“Last time you jumped, I thought you were dead for two years.”

“An honest mistake I will never, ever repeat.”

“Stop dying on me, Sherlock. I can’t … ” He covered his face with both hands, gone for propriety and anything resembling control. He hated crying, it made him feel so sick and empty inside.

“I want to watch Rosie grow up and go her own way,” Sherlock spoke softly, but firmly. “I want to grow old with you, John. I want to retire with you, go somewhere quiet and live out the rest of our useful days together.”

“What on earth would you _do_?” John raised his head, intrigued by talk of the future. “You get bored without something to keep you occupied.”

“I want to raise bees. You’d write our memoirs, you’re better at it than I am for story-telling, and we’d…well, I’d like to have dogs, too.”

“Get a dog.”

“Absolutely.”

“What breed should we get, do you think?” He turned so he and Sherlock faced each other. He wanted to see Sherlock’s face, see what he was thinking.

“I don’t know. I always wanted an Irish Setter.”

“Or maybe a Retriever?”

“What would we _name_ it, though?” Sherlock looked almost…sad. Not that John blamed him, of course.

“Hmm. I always liked the name Redbeard.”

“Redbeard was never a real dog, John.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be now.” He took Sherlock’s hand, “We’ll look for dogs tomorrow.”

“Should we take Rosie along?”

“Absolutely! She’d never forgive us if we left her out!” He smiled, “She’s been wanting a dog for years.”

“Does this mean we get a chance to be a proper family, John?” There was a tiny glimmer of hope in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Let me settle things out with Mary first.” John knew it wasn’t what Sherlock wanted to hear, but he would do this right if it was the last thing he did. He didn’t want any loose ends this time. Mycroft’s people would take care of things once he’d settled the legal bits, and he would happily let them.

“Take all the time you need, John.” Sherlock squeezed his hand, “If you need any assistance, let Mycroft know. He’ll be glad to help.”

“I’ve wasted enough time on that woman. It ends tomorrow. I’ll do it in the morning, and we’ll spend the rest of the day … I have no idea what we’ll do.”

“Crime never takes a holiday. And I know you’ve missed running cases.”

“Not as much when Greg sends me cold cases and calls me for the interesting live ones.”

“Well, that’s very kind of him.” Sherlock just raised an eyebrow as John turned again so they were back to chest.

John leaned back a bit. Sherlock chuckled and his arms went around John’s chest and hips. They fell back this way, and John flipped onto his front with a practised twist of his body. This brought him chest-to-chest and face-to-face with Sherlock.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Sherlock just smiled and held him in place. “So … Mary in the morning and maybe we’ll go looking for dogs in the afternoon?”

“I’d like to.” He sighed, “You do not have to go with me to deal with Mary, Sherlock. I can’t ask that of you.”

“I’ll go with you, but I’ll let you face her alone.”

“Do you always have to do things the hard way?”

“No. Not always.” Sherlock grinned and leaned up to touch noses with him while one hand wandered south a bit. “Though, you could probably do with a bit of distraction.” John just shook his head and wondered if objecting would change anything. Knowing how determined Sherlock could be, not very likely. And really, he was okay with that.

“How do you plan on distracting me, then?”

“Oh, I have a few ideas for that. If I may?” Sherlock kept one hand in John’s hair, the other wandered along the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. John could never say no to that smile, those eyes.

“Your eyes aren’t even _brown_ , how are you doing that?” He rolled his eyes even as Sherlock carefully rolled them so he was on the bottom of the arrangement. That was fine with him. John tugged on the material of Sherlock’s tee-shirt and got it over his head, his own tee-shirt followed in quick like fashion, disappearing from sight as Sherlock tossed it carelessly behind him. He played with messy dark curls as Sherlock made his way down from John’s hairline. It was just the way he did things, and John was happy to let him. He sighed into a kiss, a very selfish kiss. It was as if Sherlock was trying to take every memory of Mary and replace her. John was very happy to let him do that, for as long and as often as he wished. Kissing Sherlock was … it felt right, it felt safe. It was familiar and he didn’t have to pretend it made him happy, that he _wanted_ it.

“God, I missed you. I missed this.” He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s, “I missed _us_.”

“Let me take care of you, John. Forget everything else, just for a few hours.”

“Help me forget.” John hated begging.

“Allow me.” Sherlock just smiled, kissed him one last time, and made his way south again. John was a little ashamed that he wasn’t quite in top shape, middle age and parenthood had joined forces and conspired against him to keep him a bit softer in the middle than he generally liked.

“Stop that.” Sherlock growled, looking up from his place between John’s legs, “Right this minute, you stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re doing it again, and it’s unacceptable. You are just perfect the way you are.” As if to make his point clear, Sherlock paid a bit of attention to the softness at John’s midsection. “This is part of aging, it happens to everyone. This does not make you less-than, it does not mean you are less capable.”

“What are you on about?”

“You seem to have this impression of yourself that you are unfit for your age or some nonsense.” Eyes turned grey looked steadily at him, “Which is entirely untrue. You are in far better physical condition than many of our age-mates and even some who are quite a good bit younger. There is nothing wrong with the way you look.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes a bit. “You…”

“You are a father, with a four-year-old daughter, no one could realistically expect you to have enough time to yourself to maintain a military-strict exercise regimen.”

“You are biased.”

“Absolutely! And I have every right to be! You are perfect, John Watson, and I will do whatever I must to remind you of that.”

“You call me an idiot.”

“Because I love you. But you are not a moron.”

“Oh, thanks for that!” He smacked Sherlock on the shoulder, “Brat!” 

“Oh, brat, am I?” An eyebrow went up, “I will show you a proper brat, sir.” John knew better than to challenge Sherlock on that, he would regret it. Intent on proving his point and keeping John quiet, Sherlock hooked his fingers into the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms and tugged. John lifted his hips when requested by a soft kiss to his hip, and the bottoms and pants disappeared.

“Ah, is this for me, then?”

“Oh, Christ. Sh…Sherlock…oh, god.” John grunted as a soft puff of warm air hit his not inadequate or entirely uninterested cock. “Please.”

“My pleasure.” Sherlock smiled, “And yours.”

“Shit.” John groaned as Sherlock got busy.

Sherlock got his shoulders under John’s knees and settled in for a long bout of teasing and love-making. All he could do was hang on, and he tried his best to stay quiet. John knew he would probably forget his own damn name before sunrise, and that was okay with him. He wanted to forget, he _had_ to forget. The past was an awful gruesome thing and he wanted nothing to do with it for quite a while yet. The future had some promise to it and he would defend that future to his deathbed. He wanted to be with Sherlock, and he would be. Somehow, he would make this his life.

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following prompt (modified as necessary): "When Lisa ran out of ice, I volunteered to go out and get some more. I needed the fresh air. I needed to think before I ended up doing something I regretted again. All I wanted was to..."  
> And the following song-prompt: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypUcOIV4rNk. I do not use the song or the lyrics in this story, but it was certainly a huge inspiration.


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